


The Hunt

by Ayrith



Category: Final Fantasy IX
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Backstory, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Pining, pining for other people, probably eventual canon divergence, the story where I explore Zidanes philandering side
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 07:47:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25467244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayrith/pseuds/Ayrith
Summary: On the eve of the Hunt Festival, two old friends meet. Freya is still looking for Fratley. Zidane is still a hopeless skirt chaser. But this time, a few things are different.
Relationships: Freya Crescent & Zidane Tribal, Freya Crescent/Fratley, Freya Crescent/Zidane Tribal, Garnet Til Alexandros XVII/Zidane Tribal
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this several years ago on FF.net and have been tweaking it slightly for years, intending to continue but never quite figuring out what I wanted to do. We are doing a FF9 replay again though, which means finally time to dive back in and revive plans for Freya and Zidane what-if shenanigans. Posting on AO3 now in preparation for another chapter. 
> 
> BTW: went back to reading some old FF9 favorites. For those interested, I advise reading [Practical Medicine](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/3358193/1/Practical-Medicine) by Myshu (which is on FF.net, but she also has [some work cross-posted to AO3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myshu/pseuds/Myshu)) and basically anything written by [Guardian1](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/8668/Guardian1), though particularly for FFIX my favorites are Go Not Gently (one of my favorite fics of all time) and Thirteen Ways to Say Goodnight (one of the most perfect Freya fics ever written, though sadly unfinished). 
> 
> **Disclaimer** : This story is a revamp of in-game events with a twist. Due to the nature of this plot, some of the dialogue is directly translated or inspired from dialogue in the game and is not mine. Nothing is mine but my love for this game.

Freya didn't know what compelled her to sign up for the Hunting Tournament every year.

It certainly wasn't fond memories, as she distinctly remembered being knocked out within the first ten minutes of her very first hunt. The next two years, she had lost horribly to Fratley, not having caught on then that two or three dire wolves weren't worth a quarter of a Zagnol's hide. The next four times, she had lost because Fratley wasn't there and she'd kept running down empty alleyways thinking he was. These days, the tournament had become less spectacle and more dreadful chore, another rote she would endure during the passing of the season.

She had thought about signing up last minute this year because she hoped Fratley would come _this time_ ( _this time_ , always _this time_ in her thoughts), but that's not what ended up happening. _This time_ she had been half way drunk last night when some lunker at Bobo's had questioned her capabilities. Stupidly, she had signed the paper _before_ wiping the floor with his face. And the counters. And the floor again, when he bloodied it up. Now if she didn't win the tournament, Bobo would indenture her for imperiling his business in the act of defending her honor. As it was, he was her "sponsor" and she'd have to say some crappy "I get my beer at Bobo's!" line when she accepted the cup. It didn't help that his wife had taken a shining to that sparkler they were touting as one of the awards.

So here she was sitting at a bar in the middle of Lindblum staring darkly into a glass of water and wondering how her life had gotten here. It didn't bode well for Burmecia if one of her Dragoons could be pinned by a death stare from a portly man with tomato sauce in his mustache on the other side of the bar.

Molly, his new serving girl, brushed Freya's coat tails as she flitted by. She was wearing an atrocious dress with large ruffled fabric at the shoulders and a long green skirt clearly _not_ designed for Burmecian ladies with large feet. It was for some island inspired theme Bobo had concocted to get more customers through the door. When Freya caught Bobo staring at her pointedly, she shuddered and returned to her water. She _had_ to win the tournament.

Then she sighed.

Truth be told, she had haunted the _Doom Pub_ for many years. Bobo had seen the worst in her—and more of the worst of her, actually. The fact he was threatening only to make her work as a serving girl was probably more than she deserved, because he knew what happened when she got one too many _Fireballs_ in her. He still served them to her, though, even knowing it would lead to trouble, because he had some inkling or instinct as to why she kept showing up the nineteenth day of the first month every year.

She felt shame, some days, that she was so transparent in her pain. But most days she didn't care that she was flashing old scars, if only for the comfort that some things never changed; the same greeting, the same banter, the same drink and glass to drown herself in.

Well, she'd gotten an early start yesterday. She'd have to suffice with cold sobriety this time around.

Freya looked down at the chilled water in her hands. The cup was in an old style, patterned in geometric shapes and had the cloudy quality of stained glass. It reminded her of the ruined basilicas that spotted the Cleyran desert, ancient stone structures that had once been a place of Burmecian worship before a religious divide a thousand years ago had kicked up the sand storm. She had spent many years wrapped in desert linen and finding shelter in those abandoned halls, picking her way across floors littered with colored glass like painted rainbows. There was quiet presence in those ruins, tamed by the sand storms that blew continually through, like memories and regrets present but buried beneath piles of silt. Sometimes, she would catch herself dreaming of happier times, and the glass would always glitter and fade around her like a prolonged wink.

When Fratley had first left, she had turned to the deserts first because he had loved the ruins even as he despised their emptiness, the remainder of a history eroding and forgotten. She, who loved the grey fields of the burmecian plains, the overflowing streams, the sound of running water on stone, spent horrible nights listening to the piercing wind behind broken walls and wondering what mystique, if any, Fratley sensed here. What wonder lay anywhere beyond the Burmecian borders, a microcosm of its own with grasslands, mountains and trees. Nothing could replace the pitter-patter of rain as her lullaby, but she listened and tried to understand. For him, she always had.

As children, Fratley had always been five step ahead of her. He'd learned to walk first, her crawling after him, face full of baby distress. He'd left for academy as she struggled through the primary education he had flown through, and had become a squire when she had finally, begrudgingly been accepted as a page. As a child, she didn't remember a time where she hadn't been chasing him.

And now she was chasing him again.

Lips thinning, Freya took a sip of her water and slammed the glass on the bar. Bobo flicked his eyes to her but she stared resolutely behind the bar, at the poster dangling on the wall with her name like chicken scratch at the bottom.

So, the Hunt. Signing that paper had been stupid.

There was a grunt as someone slumped into the barstool beside her. A machinist, from the smell of oil and the grease on his hands and face. Freya didn't look up, even when he glanced at her and snorted at the water in her hands.

"Special day?" he asked wryly, flagging Bobo for several beers.

If by "special" he meant the day half her soul walked away, never to return? "Very," she said quietly.

He grunted, taking the hint at her tone, and turned away from her to enjoy his beers. Her fists clenched slightly against the glass.

She didn't need some random bastard living it up in the _Doom Pub_ judging what she did and why she did it. She slanted a glare at her neighbor. This guy probably lived in his parent's basement and worked at some construction site two blocks from his house. He'd probably never been out of the city for more than a month, had never weathered the desert or hiked up the northern mountains or faced near death at the hands of any number of creatures. He didn't know what it meant at sixteen to have the only person who had ever believed in her disappear and leave her to fend for herself against teachers and classmates who'd only tolerated her at best, and at worst…

Only then did she notice the guy was awkwardly hunched over his drinks as far from her as possible.

 _Rei'_ s tit, she needed a beer too. There was a reason she made an effort to be drunk today. And if she couldn't get one here she was going to find the next nearest pub, purchase a keg, and dunk her head in it. It didn't matter if Bobo was now giving her pitying looks. She raised her glass to her lips, suddenly wishing for the scent of rain.

The bar door opened with a loud clatter. "Yo Pops, I'll have the stupid special."

Freya paused mid swallow. That sounded familiar. She turned slightly to the door.

A young man strode in, swagger on full blast. Knee-worn trousers and a threadbare vest told her he worked and slept in his clothes; the pair of nice looking daggers perched on his hip spoke of traveling. That arrogant smile on his baby face and the way he whistled at the server girl made her just want to punch him in the head. But it was the twitching furry tail that twined like a serpent behind him that made her return to her drink, lips pursed, and forget all about her plans to drown in a sea of alcohol.

Well, well. He was still alive, was he?

He looked different. Part of her expected to turn around and see that scrawny adolescent boasting about his latest catch on the streets of Treno and inevitably getting the tar beat out of him for it. She remembered how she'd passed him on the bridge the first time, thinking he was just another unlucky kid sucked into the underbelly of the streets, always in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then he'd come sauntering into the same café sporting a black eye like a badge, hounding the waitress with quick hands and the most obnoxious pick up lines imaginable. She'd felt like it was her divine duty to knock further sense into him and be blessed forevermore by all womankind.

Much like she did right now, actually.

 _"–_ you've never seen Lindblum from above? It's pretty mind blowing. Would you like that?" Zidane was saying, trying to cajole Molly closer with that crooked grin. Unfortunately, it seemed like time had made it far more effective.

Freya set her cup down, disgusted. "Hey, monkey-tail. I'm pretty sure your mother just rolled in her grave with that one."

Zidane looked up. Those icy blue eyes met hers and for the tiniest of seconds her breath caught in her throat. Well damn. It looked like he'd finally grown into all that overly excessive charm.

Then those eyes looked her up and down and she just wanted to punch him again. He smirked. "Monkey-tail? I'm pretty sure you've got a tail too, sweetheart."

Freya surveyed her cup. "Sweetheart? Hmm. I'm going to finish this drink here, then I'm going to kick your ass, _sweetheart_."

From the other side of the bar, Bobo slapped down his hand towel. "Zidane!" he barked. "Stop disturbing the customers."

Zidane waved a hand, smiling. "No worries, pops." Waitress forgotten, he sauntered over to the remaining open seat to Freya's left and swung into it. He reclined in it like a throne, those icy hooded eyes flicking over her. He was grinning like a fool. It was all she could do to keep sipping her water and not roll her eyes.

"Been awhile, Zidane," she said instead. Because it really had been if he'd turned into… _this_.

Zidane scratched his head. "Uh yeah, it has…uhh…"

She stared at him. He put a finger to his head in an exaggerated thinking pose.

"Martha?" At her glare, he waved his hands. "No? No, of course not. Sorry, you're…Helga, right?"

"Wrong," she deadpanned.

He playfully hit his head. "Silly me. It's Rachel. It is, right? I just didn't recognize you, is all. You're kinda…uh…different."

She was reaching for a nearby butter knife when he laughed and intercepted her hand. "Chill out, Freya!" His palms were callused. She didn't remember that, or the way the sound of her name made her feel suddenly warm.

"You're an idiot," she told him.

"True enough." He wrapped both his hands around hers, grinning and leaned forward with a conspiratorial wink. "But I'd never forget _you_." He rubbed her knuckle with his thumb, causing an odd sensation to flit up her arm. When she moved to jab him with an elbow he let go, holding both hands up in surrender, still smiling infuriatingly.

Freya really didn't remember this. She also didn't remember what it was like to be flirted with. Or what it felt like to enjoy it.

As she stared at him, Zidane stretched, yawning and turned to the barkeep. "Hey Pops. Where's my special? I ordered it years ago."

Bobo whistled. Everyone at the bar lifted their glasses and Bobo slid a soup dish from the far end of the bar. It stopped with perfect precision in front of Zidane. He looked at it, frowning. "Hey! Where's the—" He caught the bread thrown at his face.

"You're the best!" he called, grinning. Bobo muttered and went back to wiping glasses. Molly tittered and Zidane threw her another flirtatious wink. Freya shook her head.

"I guess you haven't changed _that_ much…" she said, returning to her glass.

Zidane snorted around a mouthful of soup. "Freya, I'm a changed man. No longer that dumb kid who couldn't win the fights that he got in."

"That you started, you mean," Freya corrected. When he just grinned shamelessly, she continued, "Well that's a relief. I'm sure Helga, Rachel and Martha will be pleased."

Zidane pointed his spoon at her. "Still on that? Come on, you know I was joking." His grin turned crooked. " _You're_ the one I want to please."

Freya ignored those eyes…and that mouth, which was still corny as hell but somehow less amusing at the moment. "Aren't you sixteen?" she said flatly.

Zidane puffed his chest, clearly pleased with himself and of course missing her point by leagues. "Eighteen. Legit and everything." His eyes flicked to Bobo who was heading towards a nearby customer and his expression turned sly. "Bars gotta kick me out for other reasons now."

"Not hard to find one," Bobo muttered in passing and Zidane stuck his tongue at him.

For Rei's sake... Freya fixated on the tournament poster instead. "Wonderful. Hey," she nudged him, "You gonna be in that?" She nodded her head towards it.

Zidane squinted his eyes. "Oh that? Nah. Too much of a hassle."

"Lazy and an idiot," she said, shaking her head.

"Hey now," he said, "I'm a busy man. Things to do, places to see, people to help." The way he grinned to himself at that last part made her pause.

She eyed him. "Getting into trouble again?"

"Never," he mocked, then his expression turned contemplative. "It's been a hell of a week though. I'm looking forward to a real bed, was getting sick of sleeping on the ground." He scratched his head. "It's not been so bad. New sights, pleasant company. At least some of them." He took another mouthful of soup.

"I see." Her last few weeks trekking alone in the mountains seemed positively staid in comparison. Freya looked at the poster again. "Well, I'll be in it."

"Yeah?" Zidane swallowed. "You're in it like every year though, aren't you? Which reminds me…did you ever find that boyfriend of yours?"

Freya stilled. "…No."

Zidane scratched his head again. He had the decency to look sheepish. "I see…well, I'm sure you'll find him someday."

Freya said nothing. They sat in silence for a long while, him eating his soup and her drinking her water. Eventually, he asked, "How's Burmecia?"

She rubbed the top of her glass with a finger. "Wouldn't know. Got banished, remember?" It didn't matter. _There is nothing there for me anymore._

"Oh." He grimaced, and then sighed. "Sometimes I don't know what to say to you, Freya."

That surprised her. It…stung. She looked down, wondering when she'd got so soft. "Wow. You've become a real charmer, monkey brains."

He seemed to realize his mistake. He slouched over the bar, trying to look up at her through her bangs. His eyes flicked between hers. "Sorry. That didn't come out right." He sounded apologetic.

She avoided his gaze. "It's fine." It probably stung because it was true.

"I didn't mean it as an insult to you." He was leaning in so close she could see the blue cornflower flecks in his irises—and those eyeballs were invasive! "You're amazing. I only meant that I always bring up the wrong stuff. I'd rather make you laugh."

Okay. Was this an apology? Cause he really needed to stop. "I get it," she deadpanned. She wracked her brain for something to derail him. "Tell me a joke, then."

"A joke?" He sat up, stroking his chin. "Okay. Here's a great one. What kind of pick-up line does a Burmecian like?"

"You know what? Never mind. I don't want to hear it."

"The cheesy kind." he nudged, grinning. " _Cheesy_. Get it?"

She shook her head. "That was…no."

"You're smiling," he pointed out.

"Because I am amused at your idiocy."

"Suuuure. As long as you keep smiling."

She rolled her eyes. "Zidane, please. This…" _flirting_ , but the word refused to leave her mouth "…act doesn't work on me. I was there, if you recall, that one time you tried to schmooze a kiss out of a shop keeper's daughter and got shot with an arrow in the a—"

He clapped a hand over her mouth, face beat red. "Ehehe…what are you talking about?" He flashed a smile at a nearby patron.

She moved to kick him but he jumped off his stool, tail dancing.

"Do that again and I will stab you," she threatened.

"Yeah, yeah," he said, shrugging her off. He slid back on the stool and resumed eating his bread. "But just so you know, you've got some pretty outdated info on me. The world can change a man and I've seen quite a bit since we last met up."

"Really," Freya said dryly, putting a hand to her head. Suddenly, she had a strong urge for a drink.

Zidane slapped his bread on the table. "Don't believe me? Fine. Prepare yourself, cause now I have to prove it to you. There was this one time I was on this fishing boat off the coast—"

Freya thumped her forehead against the bar. "Telling me a story does not prove anything," she said wearily. "And frankly, I really should be going." There was a keg with her name on it somewhere…

Zidane patted her back. "Ahh, where is your sense of imagination? Clearly, you are far too sober. Hey Pops, give the lady a drink, would ya?"

Yeah right. Bobo wouldn't—

Clink. She felt cold glass against her hand. She looked up to see the old barkeep walking away with a shake of his head and Zidane grinning down at her. "You've been wanting one, right? I remember." He jostled the mug at her, beer sloshing within. His eyes were bluer than any of those desert skies. "Stay with me. I promise I won't bore you."

Freya stared at him, feeling an odd flush up her neck. She didn't know what to say to that or what to think of it. Or even if she should think of it.

But she stayed.


	2. Chapter 2

Stone cold sobriety was nine times out of ten an overrated experience. As the evening wore on however, Freya began to wonder if she should have stuck with the water.

Simply put, Zidane was a monster.

Said man was currently leaning into her over a cement bartop, his arm completely ignoring her personal bubble as he used her as a leaning post while flagging down a greasy barman. Aside from the slight red around his ears and that stupid grin on his face, it would have been impossible to tell that he should be--- _had to be_ \---five tankards away from an alcoholic’s early grave.

Even if one _could_ tell, it wouldn’t have mattered; their fourth bar of the night was the diviest, shadiest drinking establishment Freya had ever had the misfortune to patron. Someone could stagger in and pass out on the floor and no one would bat an eye if moonshine was poured straight down their gullet.

Quietly, Freya mourned the death of her easy evening. She should have known better when they’d been forced to quit the Doom Pub earlier by the third round of drinks, after Zidane was halfway into cajoling Molly into ditching her shift. Bobo had chased the idiot out and then with an apologetic look, sent the Burmecian out too.

By then Freya had been nicely buzzed and ready to retire to her room at the Lindblum Drag and Pony to curl up into a ball on the too soft mattress. But Zidane had had other ideas.

Clearly the alcohol had gone straight to her head if she’d forgotten how very little she liked Zidane’s ideas.

The literal hole in the wall he’d dragged her to was overcrowded, loud, and smelled like sweat, belligerence, overcompensation and not enough alcohol. The bar top was a parade of every drunken species stereotype imaginable, from pirates in ridiculous hats to shaft workers sooty from the mines. It was also terribly packed. She’d been forced to shoulder her way with much shoving between Zidane and a giant green skinned bannga with arms the size of cannons. When the man had grunted at her to fuck off, she’d been prepared to cut out his tongue but settled for staring at him with dead fish eyes until he sneered and returned to his drinks.

After that display (and likely because she was the only breathing female for miles, Rei’s tit what was she even _doing_ here), she was beginning to get second looks of an unfortunate nature. This seemed to amuse Zidane immensely though it did not, she noticed with annoyance, hinder him in any way from slinging an arm over her shoulder and leaning close. “Five hundred gil,” he snickered into the lapel of her coat, “that some asshole asks you to ` _get out of here`_ with him before the end of the night.”

“Not everyone is as terrible as you,” she told him solemnly, which was made less effective by the fact that his face kept swimming in her vision. Then she sniffed. “Also, at least bet more than a pitance on me, you cheapskate.”

Zidane laughed outright. Freya was pleased, until she realized how idiotic that was. She frowned at the bartop. “Perhaps I _should_ retire for the evening.” Her tongue felt numb in her mouth, never a good sign. “Before I get...”

“Shit-faced?” Zidane guessed. “Piss-drunk? Rat-arsed?”

Her nose wrinkled at that last one. Damn her species’ proclivity for drunken revelry. “Before I get _arrested,_ dolt. Don’t think I’ve forgotten your penchant for bedlam and your knack for dragging me into it. You may be a lazybones, but _I_ have a Hunt tomorrow.”

Rather then respond, Zidane cocked his head at her, then grinned. Before she could question him, the barkeep appeared and he let go of her, exchanging some coin for six shot glasses filled with bubbling amber liquid. When he slid two glasses to her, that stupid glint still in his eyes, Freya eyed him suspiciously. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said. His eyes crinkled a little. “It’s cute.”

“ _Excuse_ me _?_ ” she gaped, automatically checking herself as if there was a stain on her shirt, and he laughed again.

“I mean the way you talk.” He made a mocking bow of deference. “Like a proper lady knight.”

Freya bit her cheek. The more inebriated she got, the easier it was to lapse into old habits. Her informative years had been haunted by a series of publicly humiliating reprimends for slipping into the backwater slang of her home village, much to the snickering of her upper echelon classmates. As a consequence, a young Freya had overcompensated by being overly formal, overly prepared, overly everything. It hadn’t done her much good once she’d left Burmecia, outsiders already thinking her kind zealous and overly proud, so she’d shortly dropped the airs and the speech patterns if only to be left alone.

Gone were the days of her overly self conscious adolescence; she was older now. And, Freya mused as she took a shot of hard spicy liquor that burned down her throat and straight into her sinuses, Zidane had never been one of those people. She set the glass with a click on the bar and a dry, “I _am_ a proper lady knight.”

He winked at her, slung back his own shot like water, then stared at the bottles across the bar. “I never noticed before. Reminds me of someone I know.”

The shift in mood piqued Freya’s interest. Ridiculous tall tales aside, it was the first personal thing he had said all night. “Who?”

He slanted his eyes at her. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

The hint of challenge had her leaning in, tail lashing in irritation. “Try me.”

Zidane mirrored her, propping his chin in his hand. His blue eyes glinted as he whispered conspiratorially, “A princess.” At Freya’s unladylike snort, he smiled. “Told you so.”

She leaned back with a sigh. “All right, fine. Say I believe you.” She ran a thumb over the edge of an empty glass. “She the reason you’ve been mooning all night?”

Her vision wasn’t so addled that she didn’t catch him blinking owlishly at her in the low light, hand falling. “What makes you say that?” he said slowly.

“You’re drinking here with me,” she pointed out, “rather than warming some girl’s bed.”

His eyes turned calculating, looking her up and down. “Who says I won’t be?”

That preposterous deflection might have worked if she’d not caught the barest hint of testiness in his tone.

“Wow.” She whistled low, propping her chin in her hand. Zidane moody over one girl. Wonders never ceased. “The monkey-tail slaying princesses...”

Zidane actually _groaned_. “It wasn’t like that.” At her incredulous look, he rolled his eyes. “She’s sixteen. Even I’m not that much of a scoundrel.” His nose wrinkled at that last word.

Ha. Her condescending pat on his back had him glowering. “I would bet a significant amount of money to the contrary,” she said, then softened the blow by handing him the last of the shots and clinking theirs together. “But cheers for what I assume was a valiant effort of holding back.”

The whiskey scorched down her throat like a runaway brush fire. The moment the liquor hit her stomach, she knew instantly it was one shot too many. The world went hazy for a minute---the glow of the light globes over the bar, a murmur of words as Zidane asked her something, and her nodding. With a pat of the shoulder, Zidane slipped a way for a moment and Freya found herself burrowing her face into her coat sleeve and staring at the scattering of light against the collection of alcohol jars stacked across the way, like towering columns of stained glass in reds and greens and golds.

The bannga from before was currently giving her a look, previous irritations apparently forgotten. “Special day?” he grunted.

She had a sudden flash of several years back, the Lindblum square in the midst of raucous celebration, banners waving, trumpets blasting and bunches of larkspur, daises and bishop’s lace thrown into the air and dappled with sunlight. Of herself, standing back up on the participant’s stage and admiring the view, and then turning to clap as Sir Fratley Iron-tail stepped into the winner circle wearing a silly ornamental wreath and bowing to receive his prize with all the formality of a knighting.

“Why of course it is,” she muttered into the wood, feeling an odd sense of vertigo and a foreign dark amusement, like throwing oneself off of a cliff headfirst, laughing. She raised an arm in the air, thrusting an invisible spear. “For tomorrow we Hunt!”

The bannga remained unimpressed. He opened his mouth to say something when his eyes flicked up and Freya felt a warm hand land on her shoulder. With a shrug, the bannga turned back to his companion.

Freya spun, about to ask the owner exactly how attached he was to his appendage, only to realize it was Zidane thrusting a glass of pure, blessed water into her hands. A choir of singing cherubs would not have been out of place in that moment.

“You’re an angel,” she breathed, transgressions forgotten, and then took a big swig of the glass. Her blissful expression had that smile of his sliding as easily over his face as his hand suddenly did shifting to cup her shoulder blade.

“I am, am I?” he asked her as a some seeqs beside them began to cackle at a joke the barkeep made, each guffaw like the rumble of a small earthquake. His grin turned lazy. “I don’t often get accused of being angelic.”

She sighed into her cup, pressing the cool surface against her cheek. “True. You are basically a scoundrel.” She glanced over the rim of her glass at him, feeling warm and reckless. “Though I suppose you’ve got your good points.”

“Oh?” He leaned in, fingers teasing over the ridge of her spine. “And what good points would those be?”

She was not so drunk that she couldn’t reach behind her to grab his wrist and squeeze. “Eternally optimistic, for starters.”

He chuckled, pulling his hands away. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

Freya was about to retort something scathing and flattering to neither of them when a group of humans jostled past, drunk out of their minds and laughing uproariously. She had just enough sense to set the water glass on the bar before she found herself shoved directly into Zidane’s chest.

The group burst into laughter while one of them whistled at Zidane, “Take care of your pet, eh?”

Freya’s vision narrowed predator like on that weasel face. She was about to stalk forward and beat the living hell out out of the arsehole for the thousand inconsistencies in his statement when Zidane’s arm suddenly looped around her waist, hauling her back against him.

“Whoa there, sweetheart,” he said, loud enough for the last of the humans to turn away with a cackle, “no arrests, remember?” and it was all so very maddening because even though she was Freya Crescent, chaser of lost lovers, and he was Zidane Tribal, chaser of skirts, she still stiffened, a prickling awareness washing over her at the long stripe of warmth along her back where she notched into him, the band of corded muscle like a belt around her rib cage, and his hot breath blooming pure alcohol against her forehead.

They were the same height now, she realized belatedly. When had that happened?

She swallowed. “Let go of me.”

His chin tucked over her shoulder. “They aren’t worth it, Freya.”

It was just her name, and not said in any particular way, but she rarely heard it these days and never so lowly in her ear. It, coupled with his casual embrace and the alcohol gone to her head, had her spine threatening a shiver and her toes curling, damn traitorous body. Freya bit back a curse even as she relented. She had clearly spent too long alone in the mountains this last time.

“I should kick their arses,” she grumbled, staring at the backs of the humans walking away. Zidane hummed vibrations along her collarbone, and this time she did shiver, tingling spots down her spine, and there was no possible way he didn’t noticed. Embarrassed, she turned her head towards him, hand latching tight onto his wrist where it looped over her hip. “And if you call me _sweetheart_ again I’ll kick yours too.”

She felt more than saw him smile into her hairline, even as his arm slid away. “Kinky. Didn’t think you were such a tease.”

Hackles raising at his impudence, she turned around to rip into him---big mistake. He was far too close, his eyes liquid warm, and alcohol apparently made her stupid because her heart skipped when he reached up to flick her bangs with a sly, “So...wanna get out of here?”

_Incorrigible_. She stared at him for several seconds, then cleared her throat. “I believe,” she said stiffly, wishing she’d bit that finger instead of standing like a doe-eyed virgin, “you owe me five hundred gil, _brat_.”

She thought she’d had the last word until he chuckled, depositing a coin into her hand with a smug, “don’t spend it all at once,” and subsequently making her hurl it right back at his head. Infuriatingly, he merely added it to the tip pile on the bar before herding her towards the exit. She only went because her knees wobbled when she walked and she wasn’t about to stay in this overcrowded dump to be contrary. Together they jostled their way through the crowd and out into the open air.

The night was crisp and cool, sharp enough to sear her lungs in a pleasant way. Unlike Burmecia, whose constant natural rains dissipated the creeping mists, most major settlements of the mist continuent were built on higher ground. But even by those standards Lindblum had always stood apart as a city practically built in the sky; it was high enough in altitude that the tips of Lindblum’s great airship docks skimmed the clouds. Lindblumers did not need to bolt their doors against the monsters of the dark, but could walk around the streets safely ensconced by technology and nature as if during a clear midday.

Both mist and cloud were invisible right now however, pierced through by a blanket of winking stars, like thousands upon thousands of pale seeds scattered across black, tilled earth. Fuzzy head clearing momentarily, Freya drifted away from the bar entrance into the center of the empty slum street, staring up silently at the open sky above their heads.

“Gorgeous, huh?” Zidane said, moving to stand beside her. His breath fogged in the air in front of them. “It’s even brighter when outside the city lights. Best thing about camping outdoors the last few weeks was having that for a night light.”

Freya said nothing. She did know. How many mountains had she scaled to find only moonlight and brisk winds to greet her? How many valleys had she laid bed in, with only the stars as company?

But even so, Freya thought as Zidane rubbed his bare arms and then rustled in his pocket for his gloves. The night _was_ beautiful. In her weak moments she might look up at the sky and think only of the past, but on nights like this one she was silenced by it’s incalculable vastness. It made the paper maps she had poured over under candle light appear as mere scribbles, the rare metal globes sequestered in the king’s library look like children’s toys.

The sky was not made to carry her dreams. It was not made for her at all. It was hubris to think otherwise.

Freya sighed. “I’m drunk.”

Zidane looked at her, then grinned. “Gil for your thoughts?”

“Maudlin drivel not even worth saying aloud,” she grumbled and turned to face him, breathing on her cold fingers. While she was technically more seasonably dressed then Zidane (and the whiskey did much to help), her species was too willowy and their fur too fine for the weather to be comfortable.

Zidane’s eyes flicked down at the motion. “Cold?”

She nodded. He held out a hand and she took it before her brain caught up with her. His hands were callused as he briskly rubbed warmth into her fingers, and it was surprisingly less flirtatious and more perfunctory then she expected. “You’re always so cold,” he said with a shake of his head and then like a whip crack, a silver thread, she remembered:

_Zidane, swimming in his fur lined coat, his hands a little damp from sweat as he dug his thumbs into her stiff palms. She’d winced from her perch on the jostling cargo in the airship hull, wrapped to the gills in wool and shivering like mad. Her fingertips tingled. “How are you always so warm,” she’d muttered, the ends of her long ponytail brushing his shoulder as he worked._

_He looked up at her, an infectious grin. She was pleased to see he’d tied his short golden locks back today with the ribbon she’d given him. “You’re just cold, Freya.” Then his eyebrows waggled. “There are ways to cure that, you know.”_

_She’d humphed. “In your dreams, monkey brains.”_

Almost too soon he drew back and she reclaimed her hands with a soft thank you, tucking them into her long sleeves.

What a strange night. She watched as his tail, hidden while in the thick of the crowds, unwound and bobbed in the air. It would have thrown her to see another human with one, though with Zidane it somehow fit.

“C’mon,” he muttered finally, pointing with his chin down the street. “You’re staying at the Pony, right? Let me walk you back.”

It ended up being a nice, if short walk. Apparently, they’d barhopped from one end of the Industrial district to the other and back again, likely no coincidence on Zidane’s part. In the dark everything looked unfamiliar so she followed the thief blindly through empty cobblestone streets, down winding steps, past inert fountains powered down for the night, and right up to the sooty brick building that made up the Drag and Pony. They stopped in front of the steps that lead up to it’s red paint-peeled porch, garden boxes bracketed on either side overladen with vines and a lone orange lamp glowing from an upper window.

And then Zidane turned and...they stared at each other, the first awkward moment of the evening. A brisk wind, a gorgeous Lindblum night, and two old companions. Zidane and Freya. Friends.

Freya studied him in the lamp light, seeing the faint flicker of the young teenager she’d met like a ghostly trace over the real thing. His face was thinner now, hair longer, more scarred, though his eyes were that same earnest blue.

They’d once travelled for nearly a year together, the first month with a small group and then eventually just each other, from fetid swamps below Treno to the silver Cleyrian shores, delved deep into the mist and crested high into the Aerbs mountains. He’d been looking for a place and she’d been looking for a person, but they’d both been searching for a home. She’d never met another person who’d understood how important that was, not til him, not since.

Three years, Freya thought as she looked at him. What a terrible waste. Tonight had proven he wasn't just the mischievous boy she'd met on the streets so long ago. If she let time slip away again, would the day come he'd actually forget her name?

Zidane, oblivious to all of this, scratched his head, looking at the lone illuminated window of the inn. When he looked back at her, curiosity had crept into his face. “Well I guess this is good night then...” he let the note hang, inviting.

Her mouth curled up despite herself. “Good night, Zidane,” she said. He sighed ruefully and then shrugged, as if to say _I tried_. He was already turning back down the street, arms stretched behind his head, when she asked, “Are you sure you won’t join the Hunt tomorrow? Could be fun.”

He looked back at her. Under the shadows of the skeletal lattice work of steam pipes and the shafts of the silver moon, his blue eyes looked deep and ancient, that color of wet stone glowing cobalt beneath falling rain, of iridescent scales glimmering far down in a deep pool. “You and I have very different ideas of fun, Freya,” he said slowly. And then he grinned, wild and wicked to the bone, flipping around to face her as he walked backwards into the dark. “But who knows? Maybe.” His voice was light and teasing. “I do enjoy a good chase.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the lovely reviews. So grateful that people have taken the time to read a zombie fic risen from the grave. Happy New Years. :)

Freya awoke at barmy o'clock in the morning to what sounded like pounding on her door.

A throbbing pain had settled behind her eyes and it took several minutes work to muster up the strength to crack them open and let the blurry surroundings come into focus. She'd somehow fallen directly asleep on top of the covers last night, not even making it to the pillow at the head of the bed. She'd had the sense at least to shed her overcoat and trousers the night before, though her nightclothes hung perfectly folded over a chair. Her bare legs pricked with cold and her shirt was a wrinkled mess and smelled of bitter alcohol.

She'd left the shades drawn like an idiot. It was still mostly dark out, though a faint lavender glow was starting to creep across what she could see of the sky between crowded rooftops. As faint as it was the light still speared her eyeballs and she groaned, pressing her knuckles between her eyes to quell the incessant pounding in her head. It seemed to grow only louder.

Pounding?

Freya rolled over, blinking with bleary eyes at the direction of the sound. It took her a moment to realize that what she had thought was coming from her door was in fact coming from the far wall, the one shared by the adjacent room.

The knocking picked up in speed.

Then a muffled moan.

_Holy bullocks of Hashmal!_ Propriety be damned, she would have gone for her spear and used it—Fratley forgive her— to wack on the adjacent wall like a crotchety aunt with an old broom, but when Freya went to stand she lurched head first into the comforter, mewling like a newborn kitten. Her headache glowed as earnest as the revelry next door and she swiftly pivoted in desire to wack _herself_ out cold instead. It had been a long time since she'd been drunk, surely, but this was just pitiful.

The noises on the other side of the wall were growing obnoxious.

She rolled over away from the wall—overshot it, and promptly fell off the bed. Fortunately she'd dragged the pillow with her, which cushioned her aching head, but her shoulder smacked against the ground and her back wobbled the night stand beside the bed. Something—her bag, toppled to the floor and the contents spilled in a raucous mess, scrolls and bits and bobs rolling around her, pinching her tail and spilling curses from her mouth.

It took her a moment to realize something was different.

Silence.

Then the unmistakable sound of giggling through the wall.

There on the hard ground, Freya covered her face with the pillow and groaned.

* * *

As they say, the early rat catches the lizard.

While the wall she shared with her neighbor had gone blessedly silent shortly after, years of ingrained training made it impossible for Freya to return to the comfort of oblivion, no matter her tossing and turning. The pounding in her head also needed tending.

The apothecaries opened around dawn and so Freya dragged herself to the nearest one, shivering down the cobblestone streets in hastily drawn breeches and her spare doublet. Aside from the baker boy who ran past her in a hurry and the handful of steam engineers returning from late night shifts, there was hardly anyone to witness her pitiful state.

The brisk walk and the chill morning air roused her as well as a splash of cold water to her fur. As for the medicinal, bitter drink the old man behind the counter whipped up for her, the first sip was as bracing as a sharp slap to the face.

Freya glared at the suspicious green liquid. "Is this what they call karma?"

The old man watched with amusement as she proceeded to force the drink down. "Poison in to get the poison out," he joked at her, then added as she returned the mug, "It's got a bit of extra pep in it, so I'd suggest eating a hearty breakfast if you don't intend to crash in a few hours."

At first the prospect of food sounded about as pleasant as the foul tasting potion—that is until the smells of cooking grease and fats hit her at the inn door. Bacon, she thought dreamily all the way into the dining room. Salted bacon, poached eggs, with toast and fruit jam. A glass of freshly squeezed juice and a coffee with sweet cream to enjoy afterwards. The inn keeper's wife brought a heaping plate to her on a wooden tray and so she parked herself in a corner and watched the slow trickle of patrons from upstairs, some in what were clearly last night's pajamas and others in degrees of festive attire. Her thoughts turned to the day's main event.

The Festival of the Hunt was about as big a Lindblum event as Winter Yulemas, perhaps even more so. It was an official city-wide holiday and all shops and restaurants closed down at around noon to prepare for it. A kiosk in the business district was setup for participants to check in, which often meant the market was packed by mid-morning.

She may as well get an early start before the crowds. Armor and weapons checks could take a bit of time, and there was not of lot time afterwards for any last minute shopping before everything closed early. A stop at the trinkets and tonics shop to top off on—

Freya paused mid-chew as an awfully familiar figure came down the stairs.

He was wearing the same clothes from yesterday, though his belt and buckles were missing and the collar of his shirt was halfway tucked in from a hasty dressing. More disquieting was that his hair was down—she blinked at the gold curls that fanned down his back, longer and softer looking then her own locks growing raggedly to her shoulders since her last shear. As he sidled behind the growing line at the counter, she watched him give a full body yawn like an indolent cat, muscles bunching in his shoulders, arms stretched over his head in one long line down his back, tail curling in a golden kink.

Freya returned her gaze down to her half-eaten bacon, slowly chewing and swallowing. It was none of her business and yet her ears perked up as the inn keeper's wife greeted Zidane by name. Her eyebrows rose as curiosity got the best of her and she snuck a second glance.

"Morning, Maude," he yawned sleepily, then gave the woman a sheepish grin. "Do you still make those succulent griddle cakes?"

"Those are a winter seasonal," she scolded, but then winked and disappeared behind the window.

"Two plates, please," he called, and then shuffled to the side, rubbing sleepily at his face as he made his way towards the chair on the other side of the room from where Freya sat.

Freya was preparing to make a stealthy escape…but should have known better than to stare too long. Halfway across the room, Zidane's tail twitched and before she could react his head swung towards her direction. Their eyes met across the dining room and Zidane paused mid-step, hand falling from his face as his blue eyes blinked owlishly at her.

Not a half-second later, he was heading towards her with a shameless grin.

"Morning, beautiful," he said. Her eyes immediately narrowed to slits as she pointed her fork at him in silence. "What?" He helped himself to a chair at her table, flipping it around and propping his arms on the top. Up close, he looked far more tired than usual, the dark circles under his eyes prominent. He didn't look like he'd gotten a wink of sleep.

Up close, she could now see the dark hickey on his neck, just barely visible by the skewed gap of his shirt.

There were a whole host of things she could say to him, but all of them were awkward. While awkward had clearly never shamed Zidane a day in his life, the same could not be said for herself.

"You are not a morning person," she said slowly. It was supposed to be a question, although it came out more matter of fact than she intended. He was peppy enough, but her mind kept unhelpfully supplying her with past memories of dragging him out with protest to morning practice. She really needed to stop assuming things about him.

He saluted her though. "Got it in one. But everyone likes breakfast." He surveyed her plate with a critical eye. "When did you start liking bacon? You used to complain about buying it."

She contemplated her plate. Bacon was not a thing in Burmecia, whose typical breakfast consisted mostly of rice and fish and pickled vegetables. She'd been fairly insistent about a decent breakfast for years after leaving home, but after awhile even she could admit rice was a chore to prepare daily while traveling.

"I never said I _didn't_ like it..." she hedged, then scowled when his quick hand snagged her coffee from her tray.

His eyes twinkled over the mug rim. "So contrary." A sip, and a look of bliss crossed his expression. "But you have good taste in coffee. None of that straight black crap, get enough of that on the road."

She returned to her plate and they sat for long minutes in silence, people bustling to and fro, the occasional slam of the inn door. She was not about to get trapped in a conversation about why he was here—it really was none of her business—but he didn't seem to mind the quiet. In fact, by the time the cook Maude appeared from the kitchen with two stacks of griddle cakes and a heavy coating of succulant syrup, Zidane was dozing on the chair, the coffee loose in his grip, his chin slumped on the back seat. Her eyebrows rose.

With his hair down, his long lashes closed, and most importantly that perverted grin missing from his features, he looked almost…pretty. Criminally so. It was criminal that she kept thinking about it.

She contemplated nudging him awake but in the end she didn't have to. Maude was halfway across the room when Zidane jerked up a little, eyes flashing open, and he blinked at Freya in confusion for a moment, forehead wrinkling. The look was soon replaced as he turned with a smile to Maude as she approached.

Freya quietly finished off her eggs, trying not to roll her eyes as Zidane outrageously flirted with the inn keeper's wife. Who was she to spoil the lady's not-so-secret delight. When Maude finally retreated with a rosy blush and he stood up with his two plates, Freya snagged her coffee back from his side of the table, determined to salvage her after-breakfast treat. She expected him to just walk away, but he lingered for long enough in her periphery that her eyes flicked up.

He was staring at her with something of a serious expression for once. He seemed on the verge of saying something, though the hesitation was unlike him.

"What?" She grumbled.

Corn flower blue eyes regarded her, then he shook his head a little. "Nothing," he said, tapping his chin with his free hand, and she almost called him out on it when he casually added, "Didn't say this last night, but I missed you."

Freya flushed all the way to her hairline. Thank god blushing was not a thing her species betrayed, though the kinking of her tail was bad enough. She struggled with the desire to diffuse with sarcasm or a joke before her damning sense of fairness dragged from her, "Missed you too. Brat."

He grinned at her cockily and then sauntered up stairs.

She didn't linger too long in the dining room, just long enough to finish her coffee as she stared out the nearby window, condensation forming a mist over the steepled buildings and passerby. It looked like it was going to be perfect weather. A beautiful day for a fight.

When she returned to her room, she wasn't even surprised to see the pair of empty plates sitting outside her neighbor's door, still sticky with traces of syrup. She paused only a moment on the landing, staring at the plates, before jumping when she heard the murmur of voices on the other side of the door. The sound of a woman's laughter.

Shaking her head slowly, Freya moved past and quietly closed her door.

* * *

Dragoo's armory already had customers by the time Freya arrived. Two young men were nervously inspecting some plate armor in the corner, while a red mage tested out the weight of one of the hanging blades. Everyone seemed to be avoiding the hulking Tauren with the giant axe staring people down as they scurried past him.

There were racks that had been brought out and set between some of the aisles, each loaded with an assortment of gear new and old that had been submitted for inspection.

The shop assistant looked harried when Freya approached the counter. "Purchase or pick up?"

Freya's eyes flicked to the side as the owner Dragoo lumbered by, carrying a giant gold shield in his hands. "Pick up for Crescent."

The assistant scribbled something down, then went to inspect some packages. He came back with a dyed red linen cuirass, the metal pieces on the chest gleaming like fish scales.

"Dressing rooms in the back," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at a dark hallway behind him. "Let us know if the adjustments were correct."

Package in hand, Freya made her way down the hall to several curtained off rooms. Inside the nearest empty one, there was just enough room for her, a short stool, and a grimy mirror propped into the corner.

She shucked her coat and linen shirt quickly, her fine fur prickling with cold. Her chest armor pad was a white corset like piece that she hadn't bothered to tighten this morning given the restriction it put on her upper body. She did so now, turning to the side to reach the cord laces under her arms, fingers pulling to draw the material tight against her chest and skin.

Once done, she inspected her form critically in the mirror.

Burmecians were uniquely proportioned compared to other species, which meant most gear purchased outside of the homeland required extensive customization. Cotton arm sheaths with leather plate inserts she'd gotten in Alexandria; armored shoulder pads on her coat from a hawker at East Gate. The chest under armor piece functioned as a breast band, given she'd never had much of a chest. Conversely, her naturally larger thighs coupled with her line of work had given her heavily muscled legs that required considerable tailoring of thigh guards to fit. Her calve sheaths were her oldest pieces—originals from when she had first left Burmecia, given the complexity of their construction. She really needed to replace those soon.

The scars were new—all collection pieces from her solitary travels. Some shiny dark marks were visible between gaps in her clothes, others hidden away. Her fingers drifted to one of the most prominent— a burn mark on her right shoulder, where a bomb had gotten too close before self destructing. If she hadn't been in the middle of a desert and three weeks from the nearest town, that one might not have been a scar at all.

Hand falling to her side, Freya stared at herself. Given the memories of yesterday and her rude awakening at dawn, she'd been suppressing idle, nasty thoughts all morning. She was no busty barmaid at Bobo's, but for years she'd never thought much of it. Fratley had never seemed to pay mind to such things, and in those few twilight months when they'd been sweet, if brief, lovers, she had never felt undesirable.

Now, she just didn't know what to feel, other than resentment over feeling anything at all. What was the point?

Freya turned away, mouth pursed, and reached for the linen cuirass.

* * *

Freya stepped out of the armory wearing her new purchase beneath her overcoat, adjusting her hat and squinting at the peek of morning sun cresting over the opposite roof tops.

Market place was twice as busy now as when she first arrived, so Freya found herself posting against one of the decorative flower beds that separated the street. Red cockscomb and white tulips brushed against her coat sleeves, perfuming a pleasant scent. A quick glance at the clock on the lamppost marked it a quarter to 8 o'clock, meaning she'd been in the armory for little under an hour. She was making good time, for once.

Alice's item shop was on the other end of the thoroughfare, but she'd make her way there eventually. Around her the crowd bobbed in a steady stream, children and dogs dashing between legs. The close proximity was expected but it was the noise that always surprised her most about the city: laughter, inane conversations, furtive whispers, dogs barking, all overlapping into a persistent hum in her ears. She would be grateful for a return to solitary climes, if only for the silence.

"Zidane!" A high voice cried from nearby.

Freya's ears twitched. With something like trepidation she turned towards the voice, half expecting to find a damsel in distress—only to be greeted with a small figure being jostled in the crowd. The person barely came up to the waist of most of the people around, and a particularly hard shove sent him sprawling to his knees, ready to be trampled by distracted passerby. Before she knew it, she'd stepped into the crowd, elbowing roughly a boarman just shy of stepping on the fallen kid.

"Watch it, bitch," the boarman jeered at her, until he noticed the kid at his feet blinking bright yellow eyes from under the shadow of a straw hat. He grunted. "Stay out of the 'effing way if you can't keep up, aye?"

Freya ignored him and the rest of the grumbling crowd, waiting patiently as the kid scrambled to his feet. They retreated to the spot she'd been standing in, and as the kid patted himself down, Freya scanned the crowd and spotted a familiar golden head of hair bobbing its way towards them. She sighed. It was getting a bit disconcerting that for a city this large, she was constantly running into the same person. Thoughts for another time.

"You all right?" She said, turning back to the kid and finally getting a good look at him. She blinked slowly.

He—she?—was a species she'd never met before. Covered head to toe in sturdy blue robes, pants and leather gloves, a frayed straw hat perched on his head. She'd thought her first glance of his face had been too dim to make out in the crowd, but even with the sun shining directly on him now, there were only wisps of dark shadow curling under the brim of his hat.

The lack of features should have been disconcerting, but it wasn't. Perhaps because of his nervous shuffling or the tremulous yellow eyes that stared up at her, full of emotion in an otherwise expressionless face. In fact, she felt a foreign pang where her shriveled feminine heart should be, which was far more disconcerting. Her mother must be rolling in her grave.

Those yellow moon eyes blinked up at her. "T-thank you," the voice stuttered, a hand going self-consciously to adjust his hat.

Freya was still at a loss for words when she felt a familiar presence appear at her side, a hand enclosing on her elbow.

"Thanks Freya," Zidane murmured in her ear, sending the fine hair there on edge. He let go quickly and moved towards his companion, falling to a knee to straighten the kid's robes. "Sorry about that, Vivi, I should have held your hand once we got here. You okay?

Vivi nodded earnestly—and Freya twitched, rubbing at the odd softness in her chest. No wonder Zidane seemed so sweet with him. He was, dare she say it, _cute_.

He also seemed hardly older than a child. What was he doing with Zidane of all people?

"One of your companions?" she addressed Zidane, trying to hide the skepticism.

The thief got to his feet and turned to her, putting a casual hand on the kid's head. "Yup. Meet Master Vivi Ornitier. Don't be fooled by his size, this little guy's got some serious magical fire power." Zidane threw him a wink and the boy hunched over a little, thumbs twiddling. The thief continued, "Vivi, this is Sir Freya Crescent, one of the best dragon knights Burmecia ever banished. Don't be fooled by her looks, she's got quite the temper."

Freya glared at him. "Only for you, dolt." Her expression softened when she turned to the boy. "Well met, Master Vivi."

Vivi bobbed his head. "Nice to meet you."

Introductions over with, the three turned to inspect the crowd, which continued to get more dense as the hour waned. "What are you both doing here?" She asked. Seemed like a poor time for general shopping.

Zidane scanned the crowd on his tip toes, tail poised for balance. "Looking for the check-in booth. Vivi's signing up for the Hunt."

She gaped at them. "He's participating?"

Her concern blew over their heads. Zidane shrugged. "He likes the card reward."

Vivi twiddled his thumbs bashfully. "Theater ships are cool."

Freya narrowed her eyes, mouth flat. Sweet as that was, it was besides the point. Did Zidane not remember what the Hunt was like? Packs of roaming dire wolves could very well eat the kid for lunch. She elbowed the thief roughly until he looked at her, annoyed. "You are going to let him sign up _alone_?"

Her intense stare finally connected, though Zidane only snorted, shaking his head. "I'd be more worried for the monsters. Trust me, Vivi can take care of himself." As one they both looked at the boy, who was staring up at them with wide trusting eyes. He looked about as threatening as a chocobo chick.

Freya's mouth turned severe. Even Zidane hesitated, rubbing the back of his head. "You'll be fine, right?"

Vivi adjusted his jacket. "I think so," he said hesitantly.

Freya threw Zidane a look. He groaned. "No, Vivi. You gotta be more confident, or else Freya will murder me." He made a shooing motion. "Try that again, just like we practiced."

Vivi pondered for a moment and then suddenly struck a pose, giving them a big thumbs up. "I-I think so!"

_Rei_ help her, but Freya almost cracked. Instead she raised an eyebrow at Zidane who had the funniest expression on his face, parts humor and resignation.

"Well, I do think he's got it," She deadpanned.

"Oh shut up." Zidane elbowed her this time, and while she rubbed the spot, he gave a sigh. "Gods, must I join after all? I was hoping to relax this trip. Go on an airship ride."

Take a girl for a ride, maybe. Freya wrinkled her nose, cursing the gutter trend of her most recent thoughts. "Don't be such a bore," she said.

Zidane twitched, rounding on her. "I am a lot of things, but I am not a _bore_ ," he said, clearly offended, and Freya took the opening.

She threw him a supercilious smile. "Oh? Prove it."

Getting into a staring contest with Zidane was not particularly mature, but today she was game to try. She internally cheered when he was the first to give in, eyebrows raising into his hairline, a smirk on his lips. "All right fine, if you insist…but hold on!" He raised a hand to hold her smugness at bay. "I'll do it, but only on one condition."

Freya was in sudden good cheer. Boring as the hunt had become over the years, the thought of lording the title of Master Hunter over Zidane was enough to make her hands itchy for her spear. "Reward money not enough for you?"

He shrugged. "I can get money anywhere." He rubbed his palms together. "I need a more...interesting reward."

She rolled her eyes. "If you say a victory kiss, I swear I'll—"

"A date," he interrupted.

Freya blinked.

"A proper one," he continued. "Dinner, and not at a crappy bar. I'll even escort you home before your bedtime and won't ask for a cuppa." His eyebrows waggled. "Unless you want me to, of course."

Freya stared at him, perplexed. "Why?"

He shrugged. "You'll just have to find out. Those are my terms." His grin was positively devilish. "If you lose, you and I go on a date."

There was an odd feeling in her chest. His condition sounded mostly harmless, and she was an adult not a blushing school girl. There was nothing he could throw at her that she couldn't handle, and besides she didn't think that was his intent anyway.

To be honest, she'd half expected to not see him again after last night. Dinner was nice, even welcome. But why call it a date?

She was being paranoid, although it was hard not to be with him. Unbidden, Freya's eyes drifted to the base of Zidane's neck, hidden by the collar of his shirt. He caught the look, his brow furrowing slightly, and when his hand came up to touch the spot, she cleared her throat quickly. "What's in it for me?"

His gaze became calculating. "Come on, Freya. You participate every year and yet how many times have you actually won?" She grimaced and he chuckled lowly. "Either your skills have gotten rusty, which I doubt, or you lack the proper motivation."

"Which you think you can provide?"

"I think I'll manage." His grin turned lazy. "What do you say?"

Suddenly, she became aware that Vivi was looking back and forth between them, head cocked curiously. She'd completely forgotten he was there and felt heat in the back of her neck.

"You're ridiculous. Fine," she muttered, pointedly ignoring Zidane's celebratory jab in the air. "Although are you really asking the right person? Sounds like a better bet for your princess."

Zidane's eyes widened as if the thought had just occurred to him. Idiot. He crossed his arms, chin in hand, and contemplated her words for long enough to make her lip curl, ready to dismiss the whole thing.

Then he shrugged. "Those are the terms." At her questioning look, he said, "She wouldn't go for it anyway."

Freya sneered. "Then why should _I_?"

"What, you planning to lose?" At her irritated silence, he teased, "See? Stakes make it more fun. Now you'll take me seriously."

Her spear hand twitched. "I am always serious."

His eyes danced. "Of course you are."

And that was that. The Hunt was on.

The boys still needed to sign up and she needed her potions, so shortly after she bade them goodbye and headed out. However she hadn't got far enough out of earshot before she heard Vivi pipe up, "Zidane, what's a date?"

The innuendo in the man's voice was unmistakable. "Something grownups do with each other. I'll tell you when your older."

Freya hunched her shoulders, refusing to turn around and correct him. Knowing Zidane, he was probably waiting for just that.


End file.
